


Cornucopia

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: #piggate, Gen, Thatcher Fucked The Kids, disgusting 2016 English politics, fuck the Tories, who wants to go to Tesco's at two in the morning?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: “Revolution is hardly a hapax legomenon,” says Enjolras. “It’s a widely recognised form of political change. When words exchanged by middle-aged middle-class white men in government buildings fail to meet the needs of the people, the people have a right to press that claim. We have a right to state our opinions.” (The chavvy self-indulgent British AU.)





	Cornucopia

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I know. Trust me, I know. They're FRENCH. Just... indulge me, okay? Just give me this.
> 
> There are (non-explicit) references to shitty British politics (including dead pig-fucking). There is also kind of no plot to be seen. I'm sorry. I really am.
> 
> -  
> For Wendy, who encouraged me forever ago. <3

Joly suggests watching a film; he suggests a hot cup of tea, he suggests cuddling on the sofa, he suggests a board game.

Bossuet suggests they go to Tesco’s and try to see how many items they can find that sound like a name of someone who would be a better candidate than Cameron.

Grantaire squints at him through the haze of smoke that hasn’t dissipated yet. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “yeah, okay.”

 

-

 

The thing about Enjolras is that he’s like a fire in human form, burning with light and heat and drawing in everything flammable. Grantaire isn’t narcissistic enough to think that he’s anything but a satellite; suns don’t have want of their moons, no matter which metaphor he uses.

It’s fucking useless.

Joly proves to be the best at the game for the half an hour before the disgruntled store manager comes over to inquire as to what they’re doing in a Tesco’s at two in the morning. “Staging an intervention,” says Joly solemnly, holding up a bag of crisps. “Have you considered endorsing a government party? Getting involved in your local community? Having a sna – okay, we’re going, we’re going.”

“Twat,” Bossuet says under his breath, almost stumbling into a shelf of bread and crisps, giggling with one hand over his mouth.

It’s started to rain as they run out of the building, breathless; the sky is heavy with clouds. Somewhere high above, the stars are hidden. Joly pats Grantaire’s shoulder and says, comfortingly, “I’m sure he’s not as angry as you think he is, idiot.”

“You didn’t see him,” says Grantaire, before he can think to stop himself. He can feel the ghost of Enjolras’s hands on his wrists, the touch of his fingers. He bites his lip, looks up at the sky, breathes.

 

-

 

“This isn’t polemics,” says Feuilly, stubbing out the end of his cigarette against the bricks, “this is _equality_.”

 

-

 

“Revolution is hardly a hapax legomenon,” says Enjolras. “It’s a widely recognised form of political change. When words exchanged by middle-aged middle-class white men in government buildings fail to meet the needs of the people, the people have a right to press that claim. We have a right to state our opinions.”

“Enjolras over here is gonna start the next United fucking States,” says Courfeyrac, jerking his thumb in Enjolras’s direction.

“I’m not discounting America,” says Enjolras, sullen, and sits down again. “Revolution, organised rebellion, whatever you want to call it—there’s precedent all throughout history. The people are being oppressed, so they stand up and fight for their freedom. Look at France—”

“France is a country in which socialism has created a very different scenario than in Britain,” says Combeferre, looking up from his textbook. There are water spots all over the pages, joining the coffee rings in their earnest crusade to make the lines illegible. “If it’s England we’re discussing, you have to take into account that we _do_ still have a monarchy, which effectively prevents actual socialism from spreading.”

“Take a leaf out of the French book,” says Bahorel. “We can get guillotines.”

“Also,” says Courfeyrac, “fuck the Queen. She’s an old bitch with too much money and too much power and not enough morals.”

Enjolras curls his left hand into a fist and sets it precisely on the table. “Well, I’m not saying _anything_ positive about the monarchy—they’re perpetuating a superannuated form of government which has fallen into an obsolete state, but somehow manages to struggle on by eking support from taxing the people and using that money to line their own pockets. They simply can’t understand the needs of the common people—they come from a place of inherent blood privilege, it’s unreasonable to expect them to be able to comprehend what it’s like.”

“Says someone who lived in fucking _Waverly_ ,” says Grantaire. “It’s not like you grew up in Glasgow. Some of us are from Kent. Fuckin’ twat.”

 

-

 

There's a half-empty bottle of peri-peri sauce sitting on the table. It's probably been sitting out all day; Joly considers moving it to the fridge, then decides he doesn't care enough. Probably Musichetta will deal with it when she gets home from work and starts bemoaning the state of the fucking flat.

Bossuet trundles into the room, blinking. “Why're you sitting in here with the light off, arsehole? Fuck.”

“Sod off,” Joly mumbles into the curve of his elbow. “'M contemplating.”

“Lemme know how well that works for you,” Bossuet says, but he pats Joly's head gently as he walks by to turn on the Keurig. “Fucknut, why's there still peri-peri on the table? Do you _want_ Chetta to go on about how the flat isn't fucking Nando's or what?”

“Mmph,” says Joly. Bossuet will understand what he means.

 

-

 

“Bloody _fucking_ tosspots,” says Courfeyrac, and takes another drink from the bottle they’ve been sharing before wiping his mouth and passing the drink back to Bahorel, who swallows the last drops and reaches for a new one.

“It’s twenty fucking sixteen and there are idiots who think voting _Leave_ wasn’t the dumbest shit since Thatcher,” says Bossuet moodily, chin cupped in hand. Joly, next to him, makes a face and waves away the bottle when it’s offered; the ceaseless rain has given him a cold, and he’s sworn off alcohol for the time being, even to warm up.

“Tories,” Bahorel scoffs, “use the most pathetic excuses. Fuckin' cunts.”

“UKIP is built on an inherent foundation of racism, xenophobia, and bigotry,” says Enjolras from the corner, where he’s resting his chin on one hand and watching the rest of them drink and complain. “The polls aren’t reporting the facts, the news isn’t covering the protests or the literal hate crimes following the voting—the people need to be fighting this, or we _will_ end up ruining the entirety of the EU. The Tories and UKIP only got to power in the first place because of an antiquated system that’s become corrupted over time instead of adapting to a new era—we still have the monarchy, for god’s sake, it’s supposed to be the twenty-first century and we still have a legitimate puppet kyriarchy. It’s fucking _ridiculous_.”

“Say what you want about the Queen,” says Grantaire from the other corner, where he’s nursing another bottle and alternating between glaring moodily at the shitshow of a protest outside and glaring even more moodily at Enjolras in the corner like the sun after the perpetual rain, “but at least she didn’t fuck a dead pig.”

“Not to piss on your protest,” says Bahorel, and then cackles and takes another swig.

It is, in fact, pissing down outside, the banners and protesters alike drenched, water pooling in Enjolras’s trainers and the seat of his jeans where he’s sitting huddled against Combeferre under the awning. One of the banners is spread out on the pavement in front of them to dry somewhat, the new Sharpie slogan dissolving and revealing the original message that’s soaked through the paper—FUCK THATCHER.

The paper is thirty years old, yellowed at the edges. Enjolras has grown up seeing these signs pasted to the walls, seen the tattoos on his father’s skin, seen the blurry photographs of his mother in the whirlwind midst of a shouting crowd. History, legacy—he’s getting his own history soaked in the rain.

“We have to make a change,” says Enjolras firmly, and pulls his hood over his head and ducks back out into the downpour.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com).


End file.
